


Performance Anxiety

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Slings & Arrows
Genre: Bondage, Dream Sex, F/M, POV Third Person Limited, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:04:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The inside of Geoffrey's head can be a weird and stressful place, and being asleep doesn't necessarily improve matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> Much to my surprise, I seem to have written a PWP. I'm not sure what possessed me.

Geoffrey groans, tossing on a sea of sheets and pillows.  Ellen’s bed is vast, endless.  It creaks beneath him, shuddering and heaving like tectonic plates.  The ceiling spins dizzily as alternating waves of heat and cold wash over him—pleasure, fever, who can tell the difference?  He can’t feel his fingers; when he tries to move his hands, he discovers that his wrists are chained to the wrought iron swirls of the bedstead.  Ellen’s mouth is on him, touching him everywhere at once: prick, thighs, toes, ribs, nipple, forearm, biceps, ear, forehead.  But even as she bends over him, he can barely see her; she’s a shadow, a mist, just a dim suggestion of small breasts dangling, slender hips and waist, her face a mystery.  An invisible spirit of the air, his Ariel, bestowing pinches out of nowhere on the unwary.  He shudders under her omnipresent touch.

 

“Aren’t you going to touch me?” she whispers, straddling his hips, looming over him.

 

He tries to reach for her, but the chains pull his hands up short.

 

“I can’t,” he says apologetically, rattling the cuffs to demonstrate the problem.

 

“Oh, Geoffrey.”  Her voice is disappointed, shading into annoyed.  _You’ve fucked up again,_ that’s what that voice means.

 

“If you’d just unlock my hands. . .” he wheedles.

 

“Oh, Geoffrey,” she says again, definitely annoyed this time.  He still can’t see her face.  He tries to bring his knees up, to make contact with her back, at least, but his feet are chained, too.  He arches his hips to meet hers, but touches only air; now she’s lying on her side, endless inches of white sheet away from him.

 

“Ellen, please. . .”

 

“A little more desperation, Geoffrey, if you please,” says Oliver’s dry, prissy voice from somewhere over his left shoulder.  “Remember, this is the love of your life, your one hope of salvation.  You’ve got to convince her that your love is worth staying for—you’ve got to make us feel how much you need her.  Oh, and do try to move your penis in the correct direction, this time.”

 

Geoffrey groans between his teeth and thrashes against the chains, which, of course, give not one bit.  Ellen stands at the far side of the bed.  He still can’t see her face, but he can read irritation in every curve of her posture.  If he could just touch her, hold her, kiss her—if he could _talk_ to her, for god’s sake, if he had the words, he could bring her back to him—but there are no words in his head, none, just sound and fury and the roaring of the ocean. . .

 

No, not an ocean; a sighing, rustling crowd.  He can see them all around him, now, ranks of faces in the shadows, surrounding the bed.  The lights beat down hot on his naked skin; he’s sweating rivers, his too-solid flesh melting into a puddle of tears.

 

Ellen’s tears.  Dimly, he hears an echo of her voice: _Don’t make me cry._   She didn’t really mean it, though, the tears were good, the tears meant he’d said the right thing and she was in his arms, his body throbbing against hers, her heart pounding as fast as his against his bare skin.  But now he’s drowning in her tears, warm and slick over his trembling, aching body, and she’s so far away, dissolving into mist.  The chains rattle as he tries to reach for her again, but he can’t even see her now, because the lights are blinding him.  His prick jerks desperately towards her, and God knows if that’s what he’s supposed to be doing with it, but it’s entirely out of his control in any case.  The words—what the hell were the words?  The magic words to bring her back, bind her to him again, make her smile. . .make it all better, _Jack shall have Jill, naught shall go ill, the man shall have his mare again and all will be well_.

 

“For God’s sake, Geoffrey, concentrate!” snaps Oliver.  “Try to remember what role you’re playing, do you think you can manage that?”

 

Geoffrey moans, all words gone, everything gone except the roar of the audience’s laughter all around him and the heat drawing in to a single focused point of yearning, down in his groin—

 

—Gasping, he jerks awake.  In bed, yes, but no light, no crowd, no noise except the rasp of his own rapid breathing, his heartbeat throbbing fast in his own ears.  Heat, yes: soft wet heat stroking him gently, insistently, pulling tides of yearning through him.  Through mostly-lowered eyelashes, he sees Ellen’s head bent over his pelvis, her hair swishing a little as she rocks slowly, approaching and receding like a wave along the beach.  A moan escapes him—a blend of relief and longing—and Ellen chuckles with her mouth still on him. 

 

He closes his eyes the rest of the way in case she looks.  If she sees he’s awake, she’ll expect him to take an active role (only fair).  To touch her, taste her, worship her with his eyes and tongue and fingers, whisper love and poetry as he takes her apart.  And he does love giving her pleasure and driving her beyond herself (yet always fundamentally and recognizably herself, even when she screams and clings to him like a shipwreck, appearances momentarily forgotten).  But right now, he wants to lie still and bask under her touch, letting her coax sleepy moans from his mouth, set him gently, warmly trembling.  No responsibilities, no expectations, no challenges, just Geoffrey floating on a cloud of hazy pleasure.  No words, for once, no thoughts, just sensation, all the movement on the outside, hips rocking, fingers grasping the sheets, head tossing slowly side to side, while inside he is still.  Silent.  At peace.

 

Very gently and quietly, he explodes into a shower of light and rains down in shining droplets that vibrate to the chime of Ellen’s delighted laughter.


End file.
